Ryder folded the letter with a care that bordered on reverence, each crease smoothed by calloused fingers. From his back pocket came the old Case pocketknife, the same one he’d carried through boardrooms in Manhattan and through chutes in Cheyenne. The blade whispered open. He knelt and cut away a square of sod, the smell of damp earth rising like a memory.
Gently, he slid the letter into the hollow, tucking it in as if the ground itself could keep his words breathing. Pressing the green back into place, he laid his palm over it—firm, grounding—like a man sealing a pact.
Footsteps on gravel. He didn’t turn until he heard her voice.
“Hello, son,” Celeste said, her tone the soft hush of a mother who’s seen her boy through wrecks and rodeos, through Wall Street wins and losses. Her hand, s
